


The Way You Said 'I Love You'

by KiKi_the_Creator



Series: Tumblr Stuff & Prompts (LITG) [3]
Category: Love Island (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27135316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiKi_the_Creator/pseuds/KiKi_the_Creator
Summary: 'The way you said 'I love you'' prompt list/post
Relationships: Marisol/Main Character (Love Island)
Series: Tumblr Stuff & Prompts (LITG) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960831
Kudos: 11





	1. The Very Least

**Author's Note:**

> Thought I'd put all the prompts I've done for this list in one place.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Broken, as you clutch the sleeve of my jacket and beg me not to leave.'
> 
> From [@bubblelaureno](https://bubblelaureno.tumblr.com)

Marisol sits on the living room sofa, textbooks and papers thrown around her haphazardly as she races through an assignment. It’s a rainy Thursday night, water droplets beating the window across from her incessantly. She’s the only one home so far, an odd occurrence, to say the least. Violet almost always beats her home, her last class of the day wrapping up nearly two hours before Marisol’s own.

Marisol seems oblivious to this fact, though, her attention fully on a paper that isn’t due until the Friday after next. She flicks through a textbook, searching for a definition she needs before giving up and grabbing another to search, huffing as she does.

The front door flies open, a drenched Violet stepping inside with a scowl aimed at the back of Marisol’s head. Her socks squelch in her ankle boots, her jacket drips water on the floor, and strands of her dark, wet hair are plastered to her face. Her very, very angry face.

“Hey, vida,” Marisol greets without looking, still scanning for that damned definition.

Violet's answer is cold, as chilly as the dark Portsmouth night outside the living room window: “No.”

Marisol’s brow furrows at the answer, but her eyes stay trained on the pages in her lap, “Huh?”

Violet doesn’t respond, her soaked boots stomping into the bedroom, leaving a trail of footprints behind. Marisol shrugs it off, however. Violet would clean it up, she’s more neurotic about mess than Marisol herself.

The flat’s relatively quiet for a while, Marisol finding her definition and getting through a few paragraphs without having to scavenge more. She’s not too bothered over whatever’s going on with Violet, even if the interaction was far from normal. It’ll blow over, whatever it was, it always does.

Violet stomps in from the bedroom, her boots still firmly laced on her feet. “No shoes in the flat,” Marisol calls in the tone reserved for her older brother or their friends. Alright, now she’s a little bothered. Violet never leaves her shoes on, she’s the whole reason for the rule’s existence.

Marisol finally turns, finding Violet’s back to her now as she walks to the kitchen. She’s still wearing her soaked clothes, her hair tied back now, and has a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She leans down to rummage through a kitchen drawer, clattering noisily as she does.

When she finds whatever she was looking for, she stands, turning in Marisol’s direction but avoiding her eye, and reaches across the counter for her keys, the ones Marisol dropped off when she got home. Violet pockets them, her features remaining contorted as she adjusts the strap on her shoulder.

“What’s the bag for?” Marisol ponders aloud, finally drawing Violet’s gaze, nearly recoiling at the fire held within it.

Violet’s jaw clenches, her entire face tight with anger as she spits her answer, “To carry my stuff.”

Now Marisol’s extremely bothered, and, quite frankly, confused. “Why do you need it? Are you going somewhere? Do you need me to come with?”

“No,” Violet answers again, stiff and harsh. “I’m going. You’re staying.”

“Where are you going?”

Violet’s eyes drop from Marisol’s as she steels herself, gripping the countertop, “Northampton, with my tía.” She clears her throat, forcing her shoulders straighter as she stares down at the counter before her, “Because I need to think about us.” The words are softer than the others, her anger slipping away and only leaving behind hurt. Violet pushes off the counter and walks back to the front door hurriedly.

Marisol’s jaw is on the floor as she watches her rush to leave her behind. Then she scrambles to her feet, running across the room and nearly face-planting in the fuzzy socks she slipped on with her sweats, “What? Why? What the hell’s going on?!” she shouts panickedly, eyes wild as she slides to a stop in front of Violet, blocking the door.

Violet still avoids her eye, crossing her arms and staring at the hardwood under their feet. She digs the toe of one of her boots into the floor, “You forgot about me. Again.” Her voice is soft, hurting, and Marisol’s heart cracks in her chest.

“What are you talking about?” She reaches out warily, taking hold of Violet’s nervously fidgeting hands and squeezing tight. “What do you mean I forgot you?”

“You forgot to pick me up. For the third time, and I had to walk home in the pouring rain,” Violet’s voice is stronger now, more confident in her words. “I called you eight times and texted you a hundred more. I waited for almost an hour at Stella’s, until I gave up because I was so embarrassed.”

Marisol’s staring into space, slowly processing the first sentence that left Violet’s mouth, let alone the last. Then, “Shit!” she whispers, eyes clamping shut. She was supposed to pick Violet up. Violet had a study group that ended at seven, over an hour and a half ago. And of course, she didn’t even have her car because she let Marisol borrow it to get lunch with her mother while hers is in the shop. Shit, shit, shit.

“Vi, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to forget. I just got busy, I swear,” Marisol meets her gaze imploringly, hoping it’s enough to stop whatever’s happening in front of her.

Violet shakes her head, forcing herself to remain resilient, “You always say that. But you still forget. You forgot me a month ago, you forgot me a week before that, and you never do anything I ask because you always forget or get busy. I’m getting sick of it,” she lets out a harsh exhale before attempting to wrangle her composure into place, “What were you even busy with? I was only a few minutes away.”

Marisol glances at the textbooks and laptop still spread out on the sofa, “I’ve been working on a paper all afternoon, I’m so sorry.”

“When’s it due?” Violet asks the question, even as she knows the answer won’t help anything.

Marisol bites her lip, eyes falling from Violet’s and their joined hands dropping, Violet’s limp in her own. “Two weeks…” she whispers, ashamed and guilty.

Violet takes a deep breath, her frustration suddenly boiling inside of her, “Two weeks? You have two weeks for that and not ten minutes for me?” she nearly yells the question, angry and hurt.

“I know, but I didn’t mean to, Vi, I swear,” she’s desperate now. She knows she messed up - _again_ \- but this isn’t that big of a deal, right?

Violet finally pulls her hands from Marisol’s grasp, jamming them in her jacket pockets, “I know you didn’t mean to, but sometimes you need to actually mean things for me. You can’t just -” she huffs, a hand slipping from her pocket to rake through her hair, “You can’t just breeze through this relationship! You have to _care,_ you have to _remember,_ you have to _try,_ but you never do!” She steps back from Marisol, adjusting her bag’s strap again and trying to move past her.

Marisol’s hand reaches out on its own accord, gripping the damp sleeve of Violet’s soaked jacket. Her throat feels tight, and she can feel tears prickling behind her eyes, because she knows she does care. She cares about Violet’s work and her passions and her family more than anything.

And she does remember, at least the really important things. She remembers Violet’s smile and to set an alarm for sunrise, and which brand of tea Violet likes best. And she really does try, she always tries her hardest, no matter what. She tries to make dinner when Violet’s tired even though she’s clueless without her, she tries to make Violet laugh whenever she’s down and even when she’s not, she tries to get all of her schoolwork done as soon as possible to leave time for movie nights and the chores Violet hates.

She _cares_ , and she _remembers_ , and she _tries_ , she just sometimes messes up. She can work on that, she can fix those mistakes, she has all her life. This doesn’t have to be the end of everything, or a big deal. It doesn’t have to be anything more than a mistake that Marisol can - that she _will_ fix.

She’ll fix it so she never has to see that anger on Violet’s face, or upset in her voice, or frustration in her stance. She doesn’t like those emotions on Violet; she likes happiness and smiles and laughter on Violet, she even likes blushing and stuttering on Violet.

Violet’s jaw is set, her features tight as she stares down at Marisol’s blank expression, a thousand thoughts flitting through each of their minds. Whatever’s in Marisol’s head, Violet knows she’s done. She’s done with feeling like she’s the only one working for this relationship, she’s done with giving up so much of her life for Marisol and not getting anything in return, she’s done with walking three kilometres in the rain at eight o’clock at night.

She doesn’t want to be done, she doesn’t want to walk out, but she also doesn’t want to keep feeling like this, like she’s not worth it, like school and Marisol’s future are more important than her. She doesn’t like it, she never has, and she can’t put up with it anymore.

“I love you,” Marisol whispers the words before she even realises her lips are moving and her voice is coming out, fragile and raw. Her eyes go wide when she realises what she said, and even wider when she realises she means it, she means it more than anything. She looks up, “I love you. So much. Please… don’t leave. I’ll fix it. I’ll remember. I’ll write it on my hand or something, I swear.”

Violet meets her gaze, dark eyes watery and pleading as she stares into Violet’s. She grips her sleeve tighter, silently urging her words to take hold, Violet’s resolve starting to waver at the hand gripping her and the eyes gazing into her own, the hand slipping in hers crumbling her determination beyond repair. Marisol squeezes her hand, tears starting to well in her eyes.

Violet sighs, dropping the duffel bag from her shoulder to grip it in her free hand, “At least keep your phone on you from now on.” She starts to turn away before pausing, “And next time I walk home in the rain… I’m walking to the train station,” she warns.

“Yeah. Okay... Deal. That’s fair. Yeah... Yeah,” Marisol lets go of her hand and watches Violet walk back into the bedroom, dragging her bag behind her. “Yeah,” Marisol murmurs in disbelief one last time, the last few minutes finally catching up to her.

She turns to the kitchen, stepping up to the oven and flicking on the stovetop. She pulls open the fridge and stares into it, her mind still whirling as she tries to decide on what to cook.

Violet steps out from the bedroom after a few minutes, dressed in a dry hoodie and leggings. She walks up behind Marisol and starts grabbing ingredients over her shoulder, setting them on the counter and pulling out cookware, too.

She drops some tomatoes in a strainer and turns on the sink tap, washing them in silence. She dumps them on a cutting board after drying them briefly, turning around and opening a drawer to pull out a knife. She starts dicing the tomatoes, Marisol finally closing the fridge door and stepping back into the kitchen as she does. “I love you, too.”

Marisol only nods, wary of sending Violet out the door for good this time, even as her eyes stay on the chopping board, her feet stuck to the floor as the knife rhythmically hits the wooden board. Marisol grabs the onions off the opposite counter, peeling them for Violet to cut. They finish cooking, Violet doing most of the work, and eat in relative silence.

Marisol doesn’t return to her paper that night, tidying her textbooks as Violet washes the dishes. They scroll Netflix when they finish their respective tasks, eventually settling on their usual show. They go through the motions the next few days, less words being exchanged between them than normal, but they’re both still there, at least.

The next time Violet needs a ride home, Marisol’s there a half hour early, drumming the steering wheel and smiling wide as Violet slips in the passenger seat. Her sleeve slides down her arm when she turns that too-sharp corner a block from their building, leaving ‘pick up Vi’ visible on her right wrist, written in thick red ink, a filled-in heart dotting the ‘i’.

She forgets Violet once or twice again when she gets too wrapped up in her work, but at the very least, she has her phone on her. At the very least, she gets there eventually. At the very least, Violet doesn’t walk home in the rain again.


	2. Trickles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Slowly, the words dripping from your tongue like honey'
> 
> From [@bubblelaureno](https://bubblelaureno.tumblr.com)

The bass thumps through speakers, a thundering pulse that soaks into everyone’s skin, shaking them to their core as they bob and sway to the nearly overwhelming rhythm. It attacks their senses, their nerve endings, their heartbeat, collapsing and rebuilding them from the inside out, a parasite abusing its power and leaving them as nothing but hollow bodies moving through the familiar motions.

Violet feels empty as she stands on the edge of the makeshift dance floor, the finale’s afterparty in full swing before her. Ex-Islanders flood the lawn, drinking and chatting, dancing and grinding, networking and arse-kissing, but Violet isn’t with them. She’s sipping gin, a drink that was shoved in her hand by an overexcited Chelsea, numbly observing the mass of bodies before her.

Her world is crumbling as the other attendees' lives take sharp turns for the better, but she’s not upset, or bitter, or resentful of those smiles and forced laughs as they mingle with influencers and producers. She doesn’t care about any of that, not anymore. Not since Rocco stole Marisol for the night, not since Marisol beamed at him as if he was the only reprieve in a torrential downpour.

They’ve laughed and chatted for an eternity to Violet, the world beyond the Villa could have fallen into disrepair and chaos for all they know, yet the pair are carrying on as if Violet hasn’t been zombified, immune to anything but her brain melting inside her head, muscle and tissue collapsing until she’s hollow, nothing but witness to the most heart-breaking and tear-jerking sight she could ever imagine.

Marisol’s head falls back with laughter, her entire body shaking with the force as Rocco beams, pride overflowing from every pore of his body as she attempts to reign in her chuckles. It’s only then, in the next instant, the next still frame, that finally Violet feels something, as awful and horrific as it is.

She downs the last of the gin, turning on her heel and scanning for any escape or distraction, anything to wipe the sight of Rocco’s hand on her arm from Violet’s mind, anything to make this less real, anything to take her back to just a few hours ago, when the future seemed so bright and promising, an ember that could not be extinguished.

Now it’s been ripped from Violet’s hands, the rug pulled out from under her by Marisol herself, the brightest star in the sky to Violet. A star that’s impossible to diminish, that provided light in the darkest of corners, the most isolated of alcoves. Only Violet doesn’t want the starlight to follow her for once, she doesn’t want Marisol to haunt her, she wants to be able to run and hide in the dark, to leave the world of the waking and settle for the world of the numb and hollow.

And she tries, she tries to find somewhere free from Marisol’s overbearing, breath-catching presence, but she can’t, and she knows she can’t, maybe she never will be able to. So she elects to pursue her second option: distraction. She finds Chelsea’s bright hair and dress, Henrik and Elijah with her. Her head bops as she chatters away, the boys smiling kindly at her as she spews sentence after sentence.

Violet comes to a halt beside her, forcing her legs to freeze in place even as she wants to run, forcing her nerves to settle even as they want to explode inside of her, forcing her face to relax and her lips to smile, even as she wants to scream or burst into tears - maybe both.

“Babes!” Chelsea chirps, smiling wide at Violet now beside her and pulling her into an oddly positioned but well meaning side-hug. She doesn’t notice the tension in Violet’s body or the cracks in her face, the strain in her voice. The lads don’t either, not that Violet expected them to. She only hoped, in the darkest, roped off recesses of her mind that Chelsea would pull her aside, that maybe she’d berate Marisol and tell Rocco he’s disgusting, or maybe she’d just get Violet another drink to numb the heartache.

But Chelsea just starts back in on her chatter, the words lost on Violet as she stares into her empty drink, her weight shifting from foot to foot every minute or so. Her brow furrows as she stares at the glass in her hand, a picture of strength and capability, but fragile and frail, easy enough to break into shards that cut and sting with one wrong move, one slip up or sweaty palm. It takes one collision, one obstacle to leave it useless and the image of weakness.

An arm snakes around Violet’s waist, kickstarting her heart and sending her careening back to Earth. Marisol smiles softly at her, nails trailing up and down Violet’s hip as she meets her gaze with affection swimming inside her coffee eyes. It dissolves in an instant, however, coffee boiling with concern as her brows pinch together. She glances around the group, finding Chelsea, Henrik, and Elijah enthralled in their conversation.

Her hand retracts from Violet’s body, slipping in Violet’s hand and entangling their fingers, gently tugging her along to the poolside, the emptiest place on the lawn, light barely angled to the water and reflecting off the gentle waves. Marisol carefully sits along the edge, her hand trapped in Violet’s, though she doesn’t urge or pull her, her thumb running along Violet’s knuckles as she stares into the dark, obscured water.

Violet stands frozen for a moment, her lungs tight as she tries to pull as much breath into them as she can. Her airways feel small and blocked, like a crowded highway stuffed with cars, not enough gaps between them for oxygen to slip through the cracks. Her eyes flicker closed, stars sparkling behind them, stars that still don’t shine as bright as the one gripping her hand gently.

She slowly lowers herself to the poolside, eyes glued shut as she pulls her heels off, sliding her legs into the cool water of the pool to give her body a sensation to focus on other than Marisol beside her. Other than Marisol’s hand in hers, a hand that could be just as tainted as her bicep was only a short while ago.

The hand pulls away, leaving a hollow, cold gap where it had been, the absence of warmth yanking away any peace the water on Violet’s skin may brought. After a single heartbeat, her face is delicately guided towards the star, a thumb brushing on her jaw and a knee pressing into her thigh. “Vida, are you okay?” Her voice is low, worry leaking from each syllable.

Violet’s eyes flick open, finding dark eyes staring back at her, and any dismissal of the ache in her chest collapsing without resistance into empty air on her tongue. She swallows harshly, throat suddenly raw as the words she wants to say choke her with no remorse, clinging to the walls of her throat to avoid release. “Vida?” Marisol whispers the name, breaking the floodgates inside of Violet with a single word.

“Are we over? Do you… Was it fake? Are you leaving me for Rocco? Was I stupid to think it was more than just a show? Do you not actually... love me?” Her voice starts rough and desperate, ending with a splintering crack that leaves her cringing into herself, wanting to run and hide from her own mind, from her own voice and words.

Her eyes snap shut once again, the world a distant memory as she attempts to ignore it, to ignore the hand cupping her jaw, the body close enough to reach for, the dark, shadowed eyes staring at her every feature, inspecting them for cracks. “Vida…” Marisol carefully urges, thumb still grazing along Violet’s skin.

She doesn’t oblige, shaking her head the slightest fraction, afraid to hear the words she knows are coming, the words that confirm her suspicions, the words that paralyse her, freeze her with her legs still in the pool’s cool water.

Marisol’s hands land on Violet’s cheeks, warmth soaking through Violet’s skin as her breath speeds up, not quite ragged and panicked, but uneven and nervous. “Vida…” Tears prickle behind Violet’s eyes, threatening to spill over and stream through Marisol’s fingers.

Marisol leans close, her breath ghosting along Violet’s lips, her breath hitching at the whisper on her skin, “I love you…” every letter is slow and accented as they escape her throat, “and only you.” The words sound as heavy and saccharine as honey and amber, candied and precious. And Violet believes them, she believes them in a heartbeat as they seep into her bloodstream, thick and intoxicating as they fill her veins, her throat, her lungs.

She goes weak in the knees, muscles quivering under her skin at the glint and spark she finds in Marisol’s eyes when she finally opens hers, the warmth of her palms on Violet’s cheeks, the fading of the world around them until the only sensation in the universe is Marisol’s fingers brushing her skin delicately, like the person within her grasp is the most precious treasure in all of history.

Violet darts forward, capturing Marisol’s red-stained lips with her own, forcing every drop of her heart to spill into Marisol’s mouth, her own syrup-coated tongue sending a shiver through Marisol’s entire being. And Violet relishes it, slipping her arms around the body against her, pulling her even closer.

Sickly sweet and impossibly delectable, a perfect, cherished flavor on Violet’s taste buds as the party rages on, the couple by the water forgotten in the chill, dark night as they themselves forget the ex-Islanders and everyone with them, hypnotised by dripping, trickling honey.


	3. Stormy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'As an apology'
> 
> From [@bubblelaureno](https://bubblelaureno.tumblr.com)

Violet stands in an empty kitchen, the front door still shaking on its hinges, the impact of a crash ringing through the wood. She stares blankly at the kitchen counter, pancake ingredients abandoned across the room, a full pot of coffee waiting to be poured. Everything’s still, frozen in time as the sun creeps higher in the sky, rays of early morning oranges and yellows filtering in through the open balcony door.

Violet’s clenched fist crashes into the marble beneath her palms, knuckles white as veins protrude from her skin, pain sparking like lightning from the impact, “Agh!” The stone that froze her in place shatters all at once, her muscles finally moving and her body feeling something other than red hot, burning, fiery anger. It feels pain and frustration, hurt and fury, despair and disorientation. Her hand instinctively retreats, clutched to her chest for a beat before the lightning sparks again. And again. And again, and again, and again.

It turns her world upside down, electricity pulsing in her veins and sparking every nerve until it’s on fire, burning and charring, melting and desecrating her. She doesn’t want to stop, she doesn’t want to feel anything but the lightning illuminating her from the inside out, she doesn’t want to feel the thunder rumbling and trembling inside her skull, threatening to burst in retaliation for the bolts coursing through her, a time honoured tradition in the heavens.

Her skin splits like the clouds, raw and tender as blood seeps from the cracks adjacent to her knuckle, smearing on the countertop and reddening the white and grey swirls, a clearer sky than the one muddying it. Then the thunder explodes, the bone prison that barely contained it collapsing and cracking, her head pounding with the claps sounding from the overwhelming pressure.

Her breath quivers in her lungs, shaking and trembling with the booms wracking through every ounce of her being, a dozen emotions flitting through her, each one the colour of a storm-ravaged sea, a dark, cold, pouring night, and clouds that contain despair, enough to lock the world’s inhabitants inside their dwellings. Her blood is hot in her veins, rushing in her ears and flushing her skin, turning her splotchy and red as everything inside her grows and grows.

The storm rages without remorse, lightning crackling, thundering roaring, sharp raindrops staccatoed as they beat down, with wind whipping and chilling everything it touches. A hurricane builds and builds, until Violet’s seeking respite on the cold floor, cowering between the cupboards and shivering in her skin, victim to the merciless elements berating her.

Tears spring from her eyes, raindrops streaming down her cheek as the wind chill leaves her colder than ever, alone and stranded in the storm, the eye of the hurricane kilometres away. She lets the rain streak her face like a window pane, droplets falling from her jaw like the edge of an awning, soaking her long sleeve like the pavement beneath a puddle by the curb.

And it came out of nowhere, that’s what makes it so deadly and destructive. The disaster wasn’t predicted, there wasn’t an evacuation, it just made landfall, ravaging Violet’s entire world. She didn’t wake up this morning expecting devastation, she didn’t walk onto the balcony expecting it to be blown to bits and pieces in less than an hour. She didn’t expect any of this, she didn’t want any of this.

Yet, the storm struck all the same, a release of pent-up frustrations and tensions in the clouds, an escape of the darkest, most terrifying possibilities of the heavens wreaking havoc on Violet, trapping her between her cupboards on the kitchen floor as the aftermath overtakes her.

The aftermath of a stupid fight, plain and simple. A stupid fight that was never meant to be a fight. It was never meant to be anything but a joke, a little teasing of Marisol for missing sunrise, their morning tradition. Somehow, though, it struck a nerve, eliciting a devastating disaster between them. Marisol wasn’t in the mood for the joke, and she shot back, aiming to sting.

She shot back, looking to hurt Violet or piss her off or irritate her by demeaning something so sacred to her. It didn’t matter to Violet, it just felt like a declaration of war, and a war she was intent on winning. She fired right back, a cannonball to Marisol’s bullet, a wound provoking a bombing. Then the ammunition blurred into one, bullets and bombs and grenades mixing together as they threw their entire artillery at one another, intent on victory.

They landed in craters, bloodied and destroyed, bullet holes coating their entire bodies, explosives pelting them and blowing apart any remaining security between them, any boundaries, any last scraps of potential rescue gone with each explosion’s _boom_.

And Marisol left, she slammed the door shut as one final shot to Violet’s heart, one final killing blow to end it all, one final wound that’s left Violet bleeding in the kitchen. She tries to ignore the pain, the stinging in her chest, and the throbbing in her heart as shrapnel tears into her until she can’t anymore.

She stands, scavenging for something to stuff the hole in her chest, something to stop the bleeding and the hurting. She collapses on the sofa, curling in on herself as rain still streams down her cheeks. She gasps for air, finding smoke and water pushing to reach her lungs, and she doesn’t think she can stop it anymore, put it off any longer, not without her life preserver.

She reaches out, blinded by the heavy rains blowing in the chilling wind, scrambling for her lifeline that rests on the coffee table. Her hand swipes desperately, brushing against it and grasping frantically and yanking it to herself before it can fall through her grasp. She wipes, brushing away as much rain until she can make out the letters of her savior.

She dials, holding her breath as it rings, a thumping volume in her ear until it ceases, all at once. “What?” rasps through the speaker, cracking whatever crumbs remained of Violet’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into the life preserver, taking a gasping breath as the storm starts again, thunder roaring and pelting, berating rain striking until she’s shivering in her skin, the wind freezing and the lightning terrifying. Another ragged, rough breath, “I’m sorry and I love you. I’m really, really, _so_ incredibly sorry, Mar. I know I overreacted, that I escalated the whole thing, and I’m sorry. I love you… and I don’t want to wreck this, okay?”

There’s silence on the other end, the quietest breathing Violet can imagine possible on the line. “Mar?” Her voice cracks and yet, she still doesn’t get a response, the flood finally high enough to submerge her, water slowly filling her lungs as Marisol never says a word, standing by and letting the hurricane take her and drown her.

She gasps in the water, drowning herself quicker and quicker, just to get the last few words out, the last few words she _needs_ to get out, even if they kill her, “I love you. More than anything, and I’m sorry.” And now she’s gone, a waterlogged body adrift in the current.

A sigh sounds, a lifesaver in the middle of the high waters, a beacon of hope, of safety. It’s not attached to any boat, any escape, though, no words following it. It’s a single savior to temporarily delay the inevitable.

The inevitable that nevers comes, the boat speeding nearer and nearer as the door cracks open, Marisol stepping inside the flat. She hangs up the phone, dropping it on a cupboard as she passes, striding closer until she stops in front of Violet, staring down at her with a heavy gaze. A few raindrops stain her cheeks, too.

She takes a deep breath, “I’m sorry, too. I love you, so much, and I’m sorry, Vida.” She tentatively reaches out, cupping Violet’s face lightly, thumb brushing away the rainfall when Violet leans into the contact.

The clouds have started to clear, the sun breaking through the gaps and washing away the storm, nothing but puddles to jump in, clothes to wring out, and damp pavement remaining, the last spectres of the disaster. But it’s over now, a memory that will pass, just like the lightning and the thunder, the pelting rain and the darkness, just like it always does when it storms.


	4. Coffee and Cocoa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'As we huddle together, the storm raging outside’
> 
> From an anon.

“Try it! Try it, try it, try it!” Violet urges, bouncing on her toes in the kitchen, a mug of hot cocoa with a tonne of marshmallows and whipped cream in her hands, the warm drink lapping at the edges with each bounce, and another mug on the counter before her.

Marisol shakes her head, the slightest fond smile twisting her lips upwards, even as she dips her head to hide it, “I’ve told you a million times. I don’t. Like. Hot chocolate,” she insists, for truly, the millionth time.

Violet groans, dropping her drink to the marble countertop in mild irritation, “How do you not like hot cocoa, Mar? It’s the best, _che_? And it’s raining! A lot, which is perfect for cocoa!” she exclaims, disbelieving that Marisol could be so heartless.

Marisol shrugs, “Just not big on chocolate, and a whole drink of it?” she shakes her head, “Egh,” she makes a disgusted face, her features contorting as she turns her back on Violet, reaching for the pot of coffee that’s been brewing as Violet chides her for her taste in drinks.

Violet lifts the mug to her lips, taking a loud slurp that she knows Marisol can’t stand, a smirk on her lips as the drink retracts from them, cradled in her palms. “What if I put peppermint in it?” she proposes, Marisol stilling at the suggestion.

She turns, coffee pot and half-filled mug in hand, with a raised eyebrow, “That’ll get rid of the chocolate taste?” She’s skeptical, wary as she tops off her mug.

Violet’s lips twist and her shoulders rise in a miniscule shrug, “Well, maybe not _all_ of it, but -” Marisol shakes her head, turning back to deposit the coffee pot, “Come on, just try it! I swear it’s good, _amor_ ,” she adds puppy dog eyes to her plea, her bottom lip jutting out in the most heart-wrenching, resolve-crumbling pout she can conceive of.

Marisol meets her gaze, eyes narrowed and lips in a frown. “Fine,” she says tersely, grabbing cream and sugar to sweeten her coffee for once, the coffee she’s finishing tonight, because not even peppermint’s enough to win her tastebuds over to chocolate.

The smile on Violet’s face is nearly blinding as she grabs Marisol’s abandoned hot cocoa mug, prancing deeper into the kitchen in search of the much needed peppermint. She drops the mug beside the stove, pulling open a cupboard and crouching to find her necessary ingredients. Marisol watches the entire time, sipping her coffee with a quirk in her eyebrow and lips as Violet boils the remainder of the hot chocolate again, this time adding the extract and more milk to dilute the chocolate a bit.

She bounces on her toes impatiently as she mixes everything together, still fidgeting as she pours the dark liquid into a different mug. She grabs whipped cream from beside the counter, adding more than Marisol would ever ask for, before standing over the mug, her brows scrunched together. Lightbulb.

She bolts to the pantry, the sounds of her scavenging reaching Marisol across the room. She returns a moment later, candy canes in hand and a grin on her face. She snaps them loudly, startling Marisol briefly, and drops a few smaller pieces into the hot chocolate, leaning them on the rim and grabbing vegan marshmallows, tossing them in, too. She pauses once more, inspecting her concoction, then sips it. “Hey!” Marisol chides, “That’s supposed to be mine!”

Violet waves her hand in Marisol’s direction exasperatedly, “I’m making room!” and dumps in more marshmallows. _Way_ too many marshmallows.

“Vida, that’s plenty,” Marisol attempts to coat the fondness in her voice, failing miserably as Violet glances at her with a small, pleased smile.

“I’m doing my best to make hot cocoa with as little chocolate as possible, cariña, I have to get a little creative and a little desperate.” She finally abandons her additives, turning to face Marisol fully, the precious mug cradled in her palms. She presents it as if it’s irreplaceable, fragile and priceless.

Marisol treats it just as carefully, not quite revering it as Violet did, but she’s wary of its value all the same. She takes a sip, tiny marshmallows bumping her lip as the scalding liquid coats her tongue. Anyone else would have jumped at the temperature, but Marisol’s nearly immune to it by now from downing hot coffee on the daily; she’s too impatient to let something she needs so desperately cool.

She hums as she retracts the mug from her lips, keeping it near enough that the rising steam remains in her eye line. Violet looks as if she may explode, glancing between the pile of whipped cream and Marisol’s dark eyes non-stop, eyebrows tilting and head jolting forward, “Well?”

Marisol shrugs, reveling in her impatience and how easy it is to make her squirm when she’s excited, “It’s better,” she concedes before taking another sipping and smacking her lips, “Not as good as my coffee, but better.”

Violet smiles from ear-to-ear, her hands clasping in front of her, “So you’ll drink it? You like it?” her smile droops a little after she asks, faltering even more when Marisol doesn’t answer right away.

Marisol wants to say no, that she’d still rather chug her coffee all night, but Violet’s cinnamon eyes are sparkling, a hopeful glint buried within each precious stone. She gives in, nodding, “Yeah, okay, I’ll drink it.”

Violet’s positively glowing as she grabs her own mug and grips Marisol’s arm, nearly dragging her into the living room. Marisol barely manages to grab her coffee, just for when case Violet isn’t looking and she can sneak a drink.

Blankets are piled on the sofa, a giant fluffy one draped across the back of the leather. The telly’s on, _The Good Place_ paused in the middle of an episode. One of Violet’s uni friends, a philosophy major, no less, has been hounding her to watch it for ages, and she somehow managed to rope Marisol into binging it with her all weekend.

They settle on the sofa, mugs placed carefully on the coffee table before them as Violet whips the fluffy blanket over Marisol and herself, Marisol grabbing the remote and pressing play. She reaches for her drink, instinctively grabbing the coffee and freezes when it hits her tongue. She glances to Violet out of the corner of her eye, finding her eyebrows knit together even as she sips her hot chocolate and watches the show.

Marisol reaches back out, swapping mugs and takes a big gulp of the peppermint hot cocoa, fighting off her aversion to chocolate as best she can. She catches Violet’s eyes flicking over to her once, twice, thrice as a smile splits Violet’s lips. Marisol sighs, “What?” she turns to face Violet head-on.

Violet turns to meet her, barely containing giggles. “You’ve got a little something,” she gestures to her face.

Marisol wipes at the corners of her mouth, self-conscious and confused, “Did I get it?”

Violet shakes her head, still only holding in her laughter by a millimeter, “I’ll get it.” She leans forward, but her hand doesn’t rise, still wrapped around her drink. Marisol’s brow furrows until Violet’s tongue is on her upper lip, her cheeks turning crimson in response. Violet leans back with a self-satisfied smirk, “Got it,” she hums teasingly.

Marisol plasters on a frown, shoving Violet’s shoulder as the taller woman erupts into laughter, nearly spilling her drink as she shakes with it. Marisol has to steal her mug before she stains the blanket or the carpet or her clothes, frowning as she holds it out of Violet’s reach. Violet’s giggles subside long enough for her to reach out and cup Marisol’s jaw, pulling her in and pecking her lips with a grin.

A small smile breaks Marisol’s lips as Violet beams at her, proud of herself for making the invincible Marisol blush. Well, the almost-invincible Marisol. The smile falls away, replaced with a pout as she makes grabby hands for her mug. Marisol obliges as she rolls her eyes, passing it back. It’s never taken into her hands, though, Violet’s own wrap around Marisol’s wrist as she makes direct eye contact, licking whipped cream from the top of her drink as seductively as she can. Dark eyes widen in surprise, gripping the mug tighter as Violet’s tongue retracts back into her mouth.

It takes only a second before she’s nearly cackling, _The Good Place_ forgotten in the background as Marisol shoves her shoulder again, dropping her mug to the coffee table. She wraps the blanket tighter around herself, glaring at Violet from behind her glasses.

They’re like hot cocoa and coffee, similar on the outside, made up of the same basic concepts and can be relatively interchangeable. But as soon as you taste them, as soon as you get to know every detail, every flavor, every drop within the mugs, you can see just how different they are, not even brewed from the same ingredients, not even serving the same purpose, not even appeasing the same tastes.

Yet, they’re close enough to be compared and contested, both capable of soothing and calming, of warming and exciting until the crash wrecks the consumer. Both have their moment to shine as they flip flop in popularity throughout the seasons, each an acquired taste year-round.

But they’re exact opposites at the same time, one sweet on its own, one bitter on its own. One sharp with the right twist, one a million other flavors with each available additive, a million possibilities within it depending on the day.

Violet drops her head to the sofa cushion, gazing at Marisol’s irritated features. She tries a smile, until Marisol’s frown deepens and the grin falls away, collapsing with Violet as she slumps, dropping her head into Marisol’s lap. Marisol slumps over her, too, her head landing on Violet’s back.

The rain outside pounds away at the window, the curtains drawn tight to hide the streams of water spilling down the glass. The wind whips, cold and berating, but the sofa’s warm, the blanket draped around Violet and Marisol warming their outsides, the coffee and cocoa warming their insides.

Lightning flashes outside, creeping in through the cracks in the curtains, thunder soon following it, ripping open the clouds and shaking the sky. Violet jumps in her skin, startled by the trembling of the heavens. Her breath hitches, heartbeat spiking in her chest as the sky roars.

Marisol sits up from her slouched position, combing her fingers through Violet’s dark hair as thunder booms again, her body still trembling in reaction. Marisol hums softly, fingers skating through dark tresses. The sky quiets for a long while, clouds dark as they release nothing but rain now, Violet relaxing under Marisol’s touch, nearly drifting off.

One last boom shakes the flat, Violet’s body shooting up, her head nearly striking Marisol in the face as she glances around in a brief panic. All she finds is Marisol reaching out for her forgotten hot cocoa, wordlessly offering it. She presses the mug into Violet’s hands, the girl chugging it quickly. She downs the last of her drink, settling as the mug is placed on the table and she presses into the sofa cushions.

Marisol finishes her own hot cocoa, switching to coffee as another episode starts. They finally pay attention to it, laughing along and Violet commenting every few moments, Marisol chastising her every time. When her coffee mug is finally emptied, she joins Violet, buried in the cushions.

She cuddles up to Violet, legs folding beneath her as her head falls to Violet’s chest, a soft, content hum sounding from her throat. Her eyes flutter shut, the rain outside now an afterthought as Violet’s arms wrap around her. “I love you,” she murmurs softly.

“I love you, too,” Violet answers, just as soft and delicate, her breath tickling the top of Marisol’s head and the words warming Marisol more than any hot chocolate or coffee ever could.

She wiggles further into Violet’s grasp, letting herself become lost in everything Violet, from the scent of her coconut chapstick and mango shampoo, to her soft skin on Marisol’s own. “Even though I don’t like hot chocolate?” she asks after a moment of pure bliss.

Violet pauses, features contorting as she considers the question carefully, “Well…” she drawls, voice pitching up in the way that it does when she’s lying or on the verge of it.

Marisol sits up abruptly, turning around with Violet’s arms still draped along her shoulders, and she swats Violet’s bicep. A frown seems glued on her face as she meets Violet’s gaze, daring her to take it back, and the crease between her brows is the drop in the water to send one last ripple of laughter careening through Violet. “Yes, even though you don’t like cocoa,” she concedes when air returns to her.

Marisol harrumps in victory, settling back into Violet’s embrace with a pleased smile, content with the present for once, not rushing for the future and all of its possibilities. Happy to relish this moment of peace, Violet’s warmth and comfort surrounding her as the soothing sound of raindrops pattering outside fills the quiet, no more lightning and thunder to disrupt this moment. This perfect, beyond compare, out-of-this-world moment.


End file.
